Disgrace is not punishment enough

He loses re-election, his job, his income, his reputation. He declares bankruptcy.

Is that punishment enough?

For some colleagues of former Newport News Del. Phil Hamilton, yes.

Hamilton faces up to 30 years in prison after his conviction Wednesday on corruption charges in an influence-for-employment scheme, though the likelihood of his doing time anywhere near the double digits is slim to none.

Still, state Sen. John Miller, D-Newport News, said in Thursday's paper that Hamilton has "already paid a very significant price."

And Robin Abbott, the Democrat who ousted Hamilton in the last election, thinks his crimes aren't that jail-worthy in light of Hamilton's many "sacrifices for the people" over the past 21 years.

It's discomfiting to hear elected officials absolve a former colleague who pushed taxpayer dollars into a million-dollar project that enriched him personally, if only because it makes you wonder how finely tuned their own barometers are.

Apparently when your collar is white and laundered by hands other than your own, ignominy is punishment enough.

True, Hamilton had a lofty career in the General Assembly, so his epic fall from grace ended with a resounding and painful thud that might not cripple lesser, lower lights.

But when a powerful man breaks the law — and in particular an elected official — I'm reminded of a lesson from a college history class on ancient Rome: A representative of the people deserves harsher punishment, not less, because such a man should have known better.

At his trial, Hamilton conceded he was guilty of bad judgment, yes, but not criminal behavior.

But bad judgment is the essence of a crime. Any crime.

You don't slip on a banana peel and land in a big stinking pile of extortion.

Hamilton's motivation? He and his wife were strapped for cash, living beyond their means. So he negotiated with officials at Old Dominion University to head a new teacher training center there, even before he went to the General Assembly to secure funding for it.

Jurors also found Hamilton guilty of bribery, but ODU officials were just as complicit: They got a brand new facility in return for letting the money-man head it up.

But ODU officials apparently won't be punished. Two of them testified against Hamilton in return for immunity, admitting to what amounts to near-criminal weakness of character — knowing the arrangement was wrong, but too scared to do anything about it. One admits to lying about it, over and over.

They both claim ODU's president at that time suggested hiring Hamilton, but she denies ever doing so.

More flawed people, exercising bad judgment.

It's easy to empathize with people like this. To relate. To remember there's flesh and blood behind the mug shots or the video feed outside the courtroom.

Other criminals aren't so lucky.

Like Jerry Terrell Jackson, 29, on death row for raping and murdering an 88-year-old Williamsburg woman in 2001. A terrible crime. And he's guilty.

But Jackson's attorneys want a chance to humanize him, too; to put flesh and blood on his bones. To show he's not some two-dimensional villain, but a survivor of child abuse so monstrous it broke him — warped him into an adult capable of monstrous things.

They don't even want him released — they just don't want him executed, but given life in prison instead.

We can only imagine the old demons nesting inside Jackson's head, goading him to commit unspeakable acts.

Hamilton, at least, harmed no one but himself and his family. He was just an elected official living a lavish lifestyle he could ill afford, whose motivations — whose only excuse — seems to have been greed, arrogance, a sense of entitlement, and greed.

And he was willing to leverage his two decades of public service, his influence, to extort a $40,000-a-year job.

The law considers what Hamilton did so wrong it rates three decades behind bars. For a middle-aged man, virtually a life sentence.

His family, his friends and colleagues might be ready and willing to make their excuses for him.